


She's a silver lining lone ranger

by Pepperish



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Also Romance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of drama, Modern Era, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8510662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pepperish/pseuds/Pepperish
Summary: READ THE WARNING IN THE NOTE!- Clarke Griffin shows up in Arkadia out of absolutely nowhere, no past, no major, nothing but the fact she's suddenly everywhere Bellamy Blake is. It's a terrible inconvenience when they decided to mutually despise each other. (until, of course, they don't)-OR: Something of a slowburn, enemies to lovers, finding solace in each other with heavy doses of angst.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think the whole hurt/comfort thing is becoming a pattern, but. Here we go again, right? This fic is sort of special to me though, because I really want season 4 to take better care of Bellamy and, since it isn't here yet, I'm doing it myself.
> 
> Before you go through with it, let me just warn you all:  
> THIS FIC CONTAINS LINCOLN'S DEATH, OK?
> 
> I know it was awful and we all hated it and cried - Jesus fuck did I cry - BUT I needed it for plot reasons so. You're all warned.
> 
> The title is a courtesy from Arctic Monkey's R U Mine? since I was listening to it as I wrote the first scenes and it just stuck.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoy reading it and leave me your thoughts afterwards <3

“Coffee,” he grouches, a frown on his features behind thick-framed glasses, plopping unceremoniously on the barstool. He barely has the mind to add the “please,” under the weight of the barista’s glare, but he officially doesn’t care.

 His day was fucking awful and he has no energy left to deal with Clarke Griffin.

“Black and bitter like your soul?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

 The blonde girl measures him up for a bit before shrugging and heading to the expresso machine.

 They met a few months back when Clarke Griffin appeared in Arkadia out of nowhere. It’s not like this is extraordinary in and of itself – Arkadia’s a small town that revolves around ARK University and most of its residents are students flocking from all parts of the country – but, unlike everyone else, no one really knew anything about Clarke. Where she came from, what she’s studying, nothing.

 Monty – Miller’s crush since they met in a LGBTQ+ meeting a few months back – met her at Grounders, the local coffee shop, and invited her to their Thursday game night at the Dropship.

 Bellamy’s not a firm believer in love at first sight, but loathing at first sight? That he can solidly rely on.

 Clarke walked into the bar like she owned it herself. Shoulders squared back, sure footsteps and bright, if a little sharp, smile. Bellamy doesn’t know exactly what about her – the soft, pink sweater or the expensive men’s watch on her wrist – set him off.

“I’m so glad you could come!” Monty hugged her with one arm.

“No problem, really. I live up in the hills, barely five minutes from here,” She pushed a golden strand of hair behind her ear, “Thanks for inviting me.”

 Bellamy just couldn’t help himself:

“Wow, the hills? We finally have someone from the A circle to hang out with us.”

 She narrowed her eyes.

“Excuse me, do I know you?”

“Don’t expect you too, princess, I’m just a lowly peasant.”

“Bellamy!” Octavia reprehended, but Clarke was still glaring daggers at him and hell would freeze before Bellamy was the first one to fold.

“Monty didn’t mention we had a bad case of assholes around here.”

“Feeling welcome, already?” He snarked.

“Yeah, feels just like home, thanks.”

 Her bitter tone made something inside Bellamy feel close to guilt, but he was quick to shrug it off.

“Always here to please.”

“Oh really? Then get the fuck out of my face, please.”

 Before the outrage could settle in, his sister was dragging him away by the arm, scolding him all the way.

“What? Did you _look_ at her?” He asked, but he could already feel the tip of his ears turning pink.

“Did you look at _yourself_?”

 Bellamy crossed his arms and refused to admit he was wrong, but it was too late. He was already feeling embarrassed.

 Bearing that in mind – Octavia put in very simple terms how much of a dick he was – Bellamy looked her up the next day. Monty told him she was working in the same bar as Gina with a very cautious look, like he wasn’t sure telling Bellamy that was a good idea.

 He went there anyway. Clarke was working the register, looking much more less like the spoiled daddy’s girl he imagined her as dressed in the same apron he’s seen Gina wear over and over.

“Oh great, it’s you.” She deadpanned barely acknowledging his presence at all.

“Awesome costumer service,” Bellamy quipped back before he could think his words through, then bit his tongue. This was _not_ what he went there to say. “Look, about the other day –”

“You were a self-entitled prick.”

“Yeah, that,” the muscle in his jaw ticked, but Bellamy attempted to remain calm, “it was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

Clarke kept counting the register money with a bored expression, “Are you feeling better yet?”

“What?”

“You were an asshole then felt bad about yourself, so you thought coming here to apologize would make you feel better, right?” Clarke finally faced him, looking supremely unimpressed with an arched brow and a firm set of lips. “Now that _that_ ’s over, can we move on to the part where we never speak again?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re more a princess than I originally thought,” he laughed, humorless, “forget I ever tried to be a decent person.”

“Oh, please. You wouldn’t know decent if it smacked you in the face, jackass,” she sneered.

 And while that particular interaction made nothing better, they didn’t stop running into each other.

 Because Clarke Griffin, apparently, was suddenly everywhere in Bellamy’s life. She was a barista in the same cafeteria Gina worked and he went to study, she bartended in the club Octavia liked to go and drag all their friends, she became fast friends with Monty and Octavia’s boyfriend Lincoln, and Bellamy couldn’t forget she existed if he bloody tried.

 Every single time they met, things got somehow worse.

She puts the mug in front of him, effectively snapping him out of his reverie.

“Gina will be back from her break in fifteen. She needed to go to the bank.”

 Bellamy nods once and murmurs something aching to a thank you before taking a huge gulp of the hot icor. He fetches his book on the Inca Civilization and downs his coffee in record time. Clarke refills his mug before he can even signal her for it and he’s grudgingly thankful.

 It’s not a rush hour so things in the coffee shop are slow and Clarke’s washing the dishes with the same weird intense focus she does everything. Bellamy tries to immerse himself in his books, but he’s always at least half aware of her movements in his peripheral vision.

 At this point, with his girlfriend and Clarke working in the same cafeteria, he’s used to it, but. She’s one of those people who can unnerve you simply by standing nearby.

 In front of him sit the two usual tip jars. One has a post it with “Daredevil” written in a neat cursive, horns peaking out of the curled D, and the other has “Jessica Jones” with a flexed muscled arm sketched. He considers them for a while and notices Clarke trying to school her features – Bellamy almost assumes she was smiling – when he drops a fiver in the Jessica Jones one.

“Not even my boyfriend supports me around here,” Gina sighs, all good-humor, from behind him and pecks him in the cheek, “you win this round, Griffin.”

“Sorry,” he smiles in response.

She goes to the back look for her apron and Clarke approaches him again to refill his mug.

“Should’ve known you’d be the girl-power type. Long live white feminism, right?”

“Maybe I just find Luke Cage _really_ hot.”

 “He is, so.”

“Cheers,” Clarke serves him and they have a staring match, both blank-faced and stubborn. It’s a game, whoever smiles first, loses. Bellamy doesn’t really know why, but hey, he isn’t the one making the rules here.

“I think I’d like a muffin, please,” he says in his most polite tone of voice, because he hates muffins and she knows it. For some reason, it pisses her off, and that’s the major reason behind everything he does around her.

“Of course,” Clarke agrees, saccharine-sweet, “would you rather the asshole special of the day?”

“I should have chosen the Dare Devil jar,” Bellamy shakes his head, regretfully.

“Better luck next time.”

 Gina comes back at the same time Clarke goes take out the trash, and she gives him a plate with banana muffins.

“Here, Clarke said you asked them,” Gina says, a small dubious crease between her brows, “I thought you didn’t like those.”

 Bellamy takes them wordlessly and shrugs.

 

 

 

 It’s almost ten pm and Bellamy’s nursing his cup of black, sugarless coffee while writing an assignment due to midnight.

 Sitting at a deserted coffee shop with barely three hours of sleep in his system was definitely not what he had in mind for his Friday night, but this week was a bitch.

 Bellamy takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes tiredly, heaving a deep sigh.

“Honestly, don’t you ever go home?” When he hears Clarke’s voice, he’s tempted to simply cover his face and stay that way until she leaves. He has no wit left to battle her right now, he’s so tired. “Gina’s not even here for you to follow her like a puppy.”

 Bellamy slides his glasses back on and levels her with an unimpressed scowl.

“Didn’t think I needed a pass from my girlfriend to sit in a coffee shop.”

 Clarke rolls her eyes and takes his now empty mug.

“What you need is to go home and sleep before you pass out. I’m the one in charge of the closing and I do not need to deal with this.”

“Noted. If I feel like I’m about to faint, I’ll go do it in the curb outside.”

 She’s entirely nonplussed by his biting sarcasm.

“Seriously, Bellamy, you look like shit.”

“Wow, thanks, Clarke, you’re so nice.”

 She huffs and stomps off, leaving him alone.

  _Great_ , he thinks, _one less problem to deal with_.

 Except it’s not, because she’s back in less than five minutes, with a steaming perfumed mug and a plate of blueberry scones.

“What are you doing?” Bellamy asks, a hand going through his hair, when she sits in front of him.

“Taking my break.”

 She pushes the plate until it’s practically on top of his books. Bellamy ignores it and reaches for the mug – the fourth one, but who’s counting.

“This is not coffee,” he states making a face, still trying to get his exhausted brain to understand what’s going on.

“Congratulations, you’ve successfully recognized tea. These are not muffins either, in case you were wondering.”

 He glares at her, but bites the pastry anyway. Bellamy’s not a _monster_ , no one turns down blueberry scones.

“So, what’s that about?” Clarke asks, motioning for the stack of books and papers between them.

“It’s just an assignment.”

“I figured that out on my own, curiously enough. What is it about?”

 He measures her dubiously.

“You’re gonna get bored the minute I start talking. Why are you even asking?”

“Because it’s late and I’m already bored. C’mon, Bellamy, hit me. Do your worst.”

 Bellamy honestly doesn’t expect her to pay attention. God knows he tried talking to Octavia and Miller about his major enough times to know people, as a rule, are _not_ interested on the socioeconomics of ancient empires like he is (and to know the people he knows are assholes).

 But, contrary to any reasonable expectation, Clarke _is_ interested. Involved, even. He never has to say the same thing twice and she retains every single bit of information he lets slip, asking clever questions and working the info he gives her. It’s – exhilarating. Before Bellamy realizes any time at all has passed it’s closing time and Clarke has to clean and tidy everything before going home.

 Bellamy notices that while he talked and flailed around with his arms, Clarke took notes in a napkin – her familiar cursive from the tip jars curling in tiny words fighting for space in the small square of paper.

When he’s putting his laptop and his book back into his satchel, she gives it to him, “Here, you have a whole thesis figured out there. I took some notes, just so you can remind yourself when you’re writing your assignment.”

 He stares at her like she’s an alien. This Clarke – small, wiry grin dancing at the corner of her lips, taking notes to help him finish his homework, wicked clever and quick witted and engrossed in things he usually can only talk about in a classroom – this is a girl Bellamy Blake doesn’t know.

 And damn, does he want to.

 The moment realization hits him, so does guilt, because the way he’s looking at Clarke now… Well, it’s not very fair to Gina.

 Not fair in the least.

 Bellamy forces himself to look away and finish stuffing his things into the leather bag.

“Do you need any help cleaning up?” His voice is a little hoarse and Bellamy wants to slap himself.

 Clarke doesn’t respond for a minute, just stare at him, expression confused like she’s trying to figure him – and his sudden hurry – out. Bellamy hopes to God she doesn’t.

“No, I’m good. This is my job, remember?”

“Yeah, uh, ok then. I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for – everything.”

“Wow,” she says and the upturn curve of her lips becomes borderline cruel again. Her blue eyes look steely gray. “Bellamy Blake knows how to thank someone. Shocking.”

 His own expression closes and, before he knows it, he’s scowling too.

“Don’t worry, princess, it won’t happen again.”

 Bellamy tells himself the sinking feeling in his gut when crisp air hits his skin and he walks home isn’t disappointment.

 

 

 

The dropship is crowded and the air inside is hot and stiffy. Bellamy hates it.

 Octavia and Gina already gave up on him and went dancing with Lincoln and Monty ages ago. Miller would be his usual company for these situations, the other antisocial jerk who’d rather sit, drink and appreciate each other through sarcastic remarks, but he had to work late.

 So that left Bellamy and Clarke.

 Worse, that left Bellamy and drunk Clarke.

 She’s been flirting with a hot, blonde girl, fake smile plastered on her face and bright, hazy eyes. Bellamy doesn’t know why that expression bothers him so much, but it does.

 Clarke says something and the girl laughs. She glances over her shoulder and their eyes meet. Her smile drops immediately.

 The girl keeps saying something, but the mood has shifted and Clarke doesn’t seem to be paying attention anymore. She excuses herself with a lingering touch on the blonde’s waist and comes sit on the barstool beside him.

“Did Gina finally came to her senses and dumped your sorry ass?” She signals for the waiter and asks for a beer. He asks to make it two because, if they’re going to go at it right now, he needs to be less sober than he is.

“You wish, didn’t you?”

“Who’d you think I’m lusting after, her or you?” The condescension in her voice always gets the better off of him.

“With you is always a mystery isn’t it.”

“Ow Blake, don’t be bitter,” she smiles, sly and tipsy, “I’d say it doesn’t suit you but – yeah, it actually does.”

“You’re so funny, Griffin.”

“I aim to please,” Clarke echoes his words from their first meeting and Bellamy scowls.

“You fail miserably then.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“What are you even trying to get at, Clarke?”

 The waiter gives them their beers and Clarke offers him a blinding smile. The guy winks and moves on. Bellamy rolls his eyes and wraps his lips around the bottle to keep himself from commenting further.

“Can’t handle a nice friendly chat? What’s so weird about it?”

“Everything.”

 She looks at him, all humor disappearing from her expression.

“God, you’re that uptight aren’t you?”

“Who are you to come and tell me that, Clarke?”

“Someone who sees right through your bullshit, Bellamy.”

 Even though the music keeps blaring through the speakers, it’s like they’re in electric silence.

“Yeah, princess, try and call me out on my bullshit, why don’t you,” he quips, anger rising, filling his chest. The kind of fury he hasn’t let himself feel in years. “You want a nice, friendly chat? Let’s have one. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? What are you even majoring at?”

 She stares at him, for once in silence.

“You’re still an asshole. Thanks for the reminder.”

“No, but seriously,” they’re both out of their seats now and Bellamy presses on, unrelenting, “I’d _love_ to know more about you, Clarke. Why is it that no one seems to want you in their lives? Was your sunny disposition that made you end up in this goddamned place all by yourself?”

 “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? No one knows.” Bellamy smirks, “You’ve been here, what? Four, five months? Who can say they really know you?”

“Bellamy,” it’s Gina’s warning that makes him halt. She and Octavia are a few feet away, shoulders taut, like they don’t know exactly what they should do next.

 Clarke’s frozen in place, stiff and small in a way he doesn’t think he’s seen her yet.

 She turns on her heels and makes a run for it, dashing out of the club, fast as lightening, and Bellamy’s going after her before he even registers his legs are moving.

“Clarke!,” if she hears, she shows no sign of it, “Clarke, wait!”

 He has to double his strides to catch up with her, in the middle of the damp parking lot.

“Wait,” Bellamy begins.

“What? Do you have more questions? Are you that interested in my life that you simply can’t contain yourself anymore?”

“I didn’t mean –”

“Fuck that, Bellamy! Yes, you meant it, own it.” Clarke spits the words, angry and rebelling, like a caged animal breaking free, “Stop pretending you care!”

“I _do_ care.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she says through grinded teeth, “why would you with someone no one really wants in their lives, right?”

“I am sorry, for fucks sake!” Bellamy’s screaming too now. “Why don’t you just tell us?”

“You’re such a control freak you really can’t handle not knowing, don’t you? Oh my God!” Clarke twists her arm out of his hold and presses the heel of her hands against her eyes. “You’re not my friend, do you get that? Even if I wanted to spill my sob stories around, you’d be the _last_ fucking person I’d go to.”

 It takes him aback.

 Not only that she said that, but how _true_ her words are.

 They’re not friends. Just because they sat and got to be civil around each other _once_ , it doesn’t make them friends.

 Bellamy shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts into any sort of order. It’s like the world tilted in its axis and nothing makes sense anymore.

“Ok, you’re right. I’m stupid for trying,” he says. “Enjoy loneliness, Clarke.”

 He marches back to the club, ignoring the way she doesn’t move from that spot and he can feel her eyes boring against the back of his head even after she’s long gone.

 

 

 

 He goes to Grounders the next afternoon, knowing Clarke would be there and not Gina.

 Bellamy doesn’t know why this particular bit of information is relevant and he doesn’t dwell on it. He needs to apologize and be done with it, even if Clarke shrugs him off again. He was way out of line the night before.

 The coffee shop is relatively full, but he spots her immediately. Clarke’s got her back to the entrance, working the expresso machine while a tall, incredibly hot brunette leans her hip against the balcony talking to her. She looks tired and he feels unreasonably guilty – of course it has to do with her being out until late last night and not with anything he said, but still.

 Bellamy buys a coffee automatically and slides besides the girl, who’s still watching Clarke like a hawk.

 Well, that is until Clarke looks at him and say:

“Oh, for fucks sake, Bellamy, not again.”

“I still don’t know how you’re not getting sacked with the way you treat your clients –” Bellamy doesn’t get to finish, because a body slam into him and grabs him by the collar.

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy Blake,” the Latina is glaring at him, faces inches away from his, “Nice to finally meet the guy whose teeth I’m punching in.”

“Raven, behave,” Clarke says in a monotone.

 Raven glowers, eyes sparkling furiously, but releases her hold on his shirt.

“Can I punch him outside?” She asks, not taking her eyes off him.

“Yes, but only after my shift, please.”

“Hey, look, I totally get it,” he says, dead serious, “you can punch me as much as you like later, but first I need to talk to you,” Bellamy redirects his attention to Clarke, “it will take five minutes.”

“ _Don’t_ look at her!” Raven jabs a finger against his chest.

“Raven,” Clarke warns her again and the girl takes a deep breath.

“Fine! I’ll go study so you don’t get fired on the account of me punching some douche. The things I put up for you, Griffin.” Despite her words, her tone is infinitely gentler. Raven shoots Clarke a significant look before turning on her heels and Bellamy waits.

“Please don’t anger the Raven,” Clarke says, already taking off her apron, “I have a hard enough time trying to keep her from murdering people on a regular basis.”

 She calls out to Maya, the shy girl at the cashier, and warns her that she’s taking her break.

 They go out through the back door and Clarke immediately fetches a cigarrete.

 He raises a brow.

“Seriously?”

“Is that what you wanted to talk about? My unhealthy choices?”

 Bellamy sighs.

“No, of course not.”

 They both lean against the bare brick wall, side to side and staring at the street. Bellamy fiddles a bit with what to say.

“I really am sorry,” he settles with.

“I hate when people say that.”

“Yeah, I noticed. But I am.”

 Clarke drags a lungful and Bellamy notices the way her lips wrap around the thin cigarette, the way the tip lights up, and the pull in his gut tighten.

 Maybe this was a bad idea.

 Maybe things would be better off if he just let them be.

“Why?” Clarke asks, finally.

“Why what? Why am I sorry?” That makes him chuckle, “What the fuck happened to you that you don’t know what people mean when they’re sorry?”

“Please, humor me,” She says, dry.

“I’m sorry because I never meant to hurt you.”

“See, this is the catch,” Clarke smiles, “if you’re only saying that for propriety’s sake – which I don’t believe, since you’re always a jerk – then you don’t mean it and it’s useless. Now, if you really mean it, it’s still useless because you’ve still hurt me.”

 Bellamy’s got nothing to answer to that.

“That’s my whole issue with people. You always think sorry is going to fix everything,” she takes another long drag before dropping the cig and stepping forcefully on it, “but it changes nothing.”

“Ok,” Bellamy lets out a deep breath and considers his next words carefully, “what if we started over?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re both to blame for this shitty thing we have here,” he gestures between them, “and, honestly? I don’t want to keep doing this. I want to fix it.”

“Fix it,” Clarke repeats, slowly.

“Beats repeating I’m sorry, right?”

 She regards him with a somewhat skeptical look, but a small hopeful smile dancing in her lips, almost against her will.

“You’re really something, Bellamy Blake.”

“So are you, Clarke.”

 Bellamy offers her his hands and Clarke shakes it, solemn even if her eyes are twinkling with amusement.

“Nice to meet you. I’m an asshole who sometimes speak before he thinks and ends up in stupid fights with people he would probably like being friends with.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she laughs and it’s a hoarse sound, like her throat isn’t used to it. “Do you think this is going to work?”

“I think we’re going to find out, right? Can it get worse than it already is?”

 

 

 

 Except it gets worse.

 It doesn’t seem like it’s going to, at first.

 When Bellamy and Clarke aren’t fighting – and they still find whatever reason to fight, like who’s the best doctor or which Arctic Monkeys album is really _the_ best album – they work like a polished clock.

 Game night becomes them versus everyone else and they win practically every time, high-fiving each other and laughing like best friends when Jasper pouts and complains. He goes to the coffee shop straight after his classes and sits on the barstool talking to Clarke until Gina arrives and she finds some excuse to give them privacy. Both of them pick on Miller restlessly until he’s so fed up with the pair of them he actually gets up and goes hang out with Monty, which Miller really wanted to do all along, and they exchange smug, self-satisfied smirks. When Clarke’s shift at the club ends and Gina’s not with them for some reason, Bellamy walks her home and they laugh like a pair of loons the entire way.

 It’s actually ridiculous how long they spent hating each other’s guts for being so similar.

 And then it all goes to shit, quite spectacularly.

 Octavia announces she’s getting married and fuck – his little sister is barely twenty two and out of college, what did she expect him to say? It took him a long fucking while to accept Lincoln as it is, seven years older than her and a year older than himself.

 They scream, row, and throw accusations just to hurt each other and Octavia leaves, furious like a hurricane and Lincoln follows her right out with an apologetic glance Bellamy completely ignores.

 He doesn’t expect her to be so mad she drives her car into a wall.

 

 

 Lincoln dies on the impact and Octavia’s taken to the hospital.

 

 

 Bellamy’s there when she wakes up and gets the news. He swears the entire town can hear her cry.

 She kicks him out because _it’s all his fault and she never, ever, ever wants to see him again_ and the worst part is she’s right. (You’re dead to me, you’re dead to me, _you’re dead to me_ )

 So, so, _so right_.

 Bellamy drinks until he can barely walk.

 He honestly doesn’t know how he ends up at Clarke’s door instead of his own.

“Bellamy, what the fuck,” she opens the door bleary eyed and dressed in a nightshirt. Her hair is a mess around her shoulders and Bellamy can’t do anything but stare right now, doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Oh my God, what happened?”

 Clarke takes him by the arm and pulls him inside the flat – this huge open space with tall windows and a killer view of the city he’d probably mock if his world didn’t just shatter.

“Octavia hates me.” She puts him in the couch and he sinks in it, putting his face in his hands and trying to stop the thoughts no amount of alcohol would be enough to drown. “How did I fuck up this badly?”

“Of course Octavia doesn’t hate you, Bellamy, calm down.” Clarke rests her hands on his shoulders and kneels between his legs, nudging his arm until he raises his head and looks at her. She could recognize that broken, lost look from outer space and it makes her chest shrink until she can barely breathe. “It’s going to be ok. I got you.”

“Nothing’s ever going to be ok again, Clarke.”

“Yes it will,” she says fiercely and her hands move to cup his cheeks. “Listen to me, even if your sister did hate you, even if the world was fucking ending and it was your entire fault, it would still be ok. We’re going to make sure of that, ok?”

 He just stares at her, lashes spiked with tears and bloodshot eyes, a look that makes Clarke want to fight the world.

“Lincoln’s dead.” His voice’s small and hoarse, like it’s almost impossible to talk through the lump in his throat. Clarke can’t help the gasp that escapes her at the unexpected hit of pain in her chest. “And it’s my fault.”

“What? How can it be your fault?”

“I – Octavia and I we fought and I said – Fuck, Clarke, I said things no one should ever say, _specially_ not to my sister and –” He sobs again and Clarke tightens the hold against his neck, burying his face in her hair. “I shouldn’t have let her leave. She was in no condition, but I was just so _mad_ , Clarke, I never thought any of this would happen.”

 The clock works to no one in particular while Clarke waits for him to finish.

“She hit a fucking wall, that’s how angry she was at me. They said he died on the impact.”

“Shhh, I got you,” she murmurs against his ear, fingers drawing soothing patterns on his back while he cries and something inside her breaks further.

 Bellamy’s the last person she’d like to see as broken as she is.

 She holds him against her body after he’s done crying and his breathing is this hard, labored thing.

“What am I going to do?,” he whispers, “she’s all I have.”

 Clarke presses her lips against his, just for a moment, just for comfort. Just so he can feel her warmth and know that he’s not alone.

“You won’t be alone, Bellamy.” Their noses are still touching and they stay like that, on the couch, until the break of dawn.

 

 

 

 He wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon and, for the entirety of a minute, Bellamy forgets what happened yesterday. He keeps his eyes shut, but the world, as always, refuses to be kept at bay, so Bellamy forces himself to get up from the couch.

 Clarke’s sitting over the wide marble counter, munching on a greek yogurt when he comes into the kitchen.

“Should I be extremely awkward?”

“Why would you be awkward?”

“I _did_ knock on your door in the middle of the night and sobbed all over you until morning, right? I didn’t imagine that?” Bellamy’s being gruff, but Clarke can see that the tip of his ears are pink and the whole bravado just intends to hide his hesitancy.

“You did do all that,” she finishes her yogurt and throws it into the trash like a basket ball, “but there’s nothing to be awkward about. You’re human, Bellamy. I suspected that.”

 He nods, once, dropping the façade.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Clarke warns.

“This is a stupid rule, you know that?”

“If you want breakfast, that’s the rule you’ll have to follow.”

 She puts the food into two plates and they sit on the kitchen floor, completely forgoing the table.

“Thank you.”

 Clarke stares up at him, taking in the bruises and the swelling under his eyes, and shakes her head.

“I can’t cook for shit. Thank Raven.”

“For last night too,” he insists and Clarke sighs. “For everything.”

“There’s nothing to be thankful for. You needed someone, I know what it’s like, ok?”

“You still didn’t have to.” He kicks her foot until she looks him in the eye. “Clarke, I mean it.”

“You _did_ come knocking on my door.”

“That I did.”

 None of them are eating anymore. The eggs on their white plates are bright yellow and the bacon is toasted just right – they look like a perfect picture of decadent youth as they stare each other down. It’s a familiar game at this point.

 Clarke busies herself with making a bun at the top of her head while she considers her next words:

“Is it too soon to ask you why you did?”

“Can we deal with one crisis at a time?” He sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the cold tile of the wall.

“Sure, whenever you’re ready.”

 

 

 

 It’s four thirty two in the afternoon and Gina’s apartment smells like cookies and softness.

 It takes one look at him for her to know where this is going.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but the words feel dead on his tongue. All Bellamy can think about is Clarke saying how _useless_ they are – _if you mean it, it’s still useless because you’ve still hurt me_. Gina, though, seem to accept them with a solemn kind of sadness. “I just can’t do it right now. With Octavia and – with everything. I can’t do that to you.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bellamy,” she smiles a little bit, the comforting curve of her lips Bellamy’s come to find so familiar, “I get it.”

“You were always too good for me anyway,” he jokes weakly.

“I really am,” her laugh sounds like chiming bells in the breeze and Bellamy thinks it should have been obvious all along. Someone so smooth could never fit into his jagged edges. All he could ever do was cut her, “but don’t sell yourself short.”

 Bellamy does his best to respond to her smile and Gina adds:

“You were a pretty great boyfriend until you fell in love with someone else.”

 

 

 

 His whole life turns upside down.

 Octavia refuses to have any contact with him and Bellamy’s trapped between the need to make sure she’s alright and the need to stay away.

“She’s not alone,” Clarke says staring him straight in the eyes, “Octavia has Monty and Jasper and all her friends. You have to give her space.”

“I know, but –”

“Nothing you do is going to bring Lincoln back,” she states and her words shuts him up effectively. “She’ll have to make peace with that. This is not something you can protect her from.”

“Of course not,” he laughs, dry, “I was the one to bring this on.”

“Are we back to this?” Clarke narrows her eyes. “Octavia is in pain, but she’s _wrong_ , Bellamy. It was an accident, it’s no one’s fault.”

 All he can do is sigh.

 When you’re all someone has for years, it’s very hard to shake the sense of being accountable. _Your sister, your responsibility_ , his mother use to say and the mantra is still ingrained in his bones. He remembers telling Octavia when she was twelve and rebellious that, no matter what or where, she’d always fit in with him. Bellamy wonders if that’ll ever be true again.

“Clarke’s right, you know,” Raven chimes in from her place in the armchair, feet propped up and ice cream bowl in hands. “You can’t beat yourself forever over it. Your sister was the one driving the car, not you.”

 Raven’s still warming up to him, but it’s getting easier. Her and Clarke live together and are clearly a package deal.

 And, to be honest, the girl is quite brilliant, even if she hates his guts.

“Are you through with being stupid?” she asks through a mouthful of pink strawberry ice cream.

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Great, then we can watch this movie already.”

 Clarke and Raven became an unexpected fixture. It’s still awkward to see Gina when he goes to Grounders, so they mostly hang around on their flat when they’re not at work, watching movies and ordering take out.

 He’s adamant he’s buying Raven’s love with Pad Thai and Clarke shakes her head, amused.

 And Clarke is – well, a whirlwind. They keep respectable distance from each other at all times and it’s almost like they’re afraid what’s going to happen when they touch. He comes back practically every night, but no one talks about it. Raven shakes her head looking at them with a quirked eyebrow, judgement clear as day on her face, but she too stays quiet.

 It becomes a routine, so quickly it shouldn’t feel like one, but it does. Bellamy gets used to how fast Raven’s brains work, how Clarke always overthinks everything to death and back, how fierce they are about each other and, mostly, how he can exist in the world without _Octavia’s older brother_ being his first and most important characteristic.

 It’s frightening and a tiny bit exhilarating.

 When the movie’s over, Raven heads to her room shooting a “ _Someone_ has to do real work around here. See you guys tomorrow!” over her shoulder, leaving Clarke and Bellamy to nothing but darkness and each other.

“Figure it’s time for me to go home?” He asks.

 Clarke considers him for a while and her lips quirk up.

“Not yet. C’mere.” She gets up and Bellamy follows her through the hallway and into her room.

 He’s never been there before, but he came to have some expectations. Clarke seems like someone who’d love vibrant wall colors and having plants around her, making small, beautiful art crafts and using them for decoration. Basically he imagined her room to be lived in and cozy, in warm yet lively tones, something _nice_.

 The reality, though, is completely different. For starters because, differently from the rest of the flat, there’s virtually no furniture in it. The bed nothing but a big mattress sprawled on the floor with soft gray sheets and pillows covering it. There’s a wooden dresser in the corner, but that’s about it. No photos, no plants. No chairs, no nightstands, only a single lightbulb overhead providing them with light.

 It’s barren for everything except the walls.

 The walls, though.

 They barely have any space left.

 Every inch is covered with either colorful paintings, some with frames, some naked, or various sheets of paper, incredible charcoal drawings, glued with duct tape. The art is breathtaking and literally _everywhere_. The floor too is littered with brushes, acrylics, unfinished drawings and blank sheets. Bellamy can see a stash of canvases propped up against the wall, white and wanton, and even with the lack of real furniture, the room seems to scream at his face: _Listen to me, I’m alive, I’m bright and yearning_.

 And it’s _hers_.

“Wow, it’s…”

 Clarke’s smiling, a little shy and very much amused, and Bellamy honest to God wants nothing more than kiss her.

 It’s not the right time, his world is in ruins and their relationship is tentative at best and chaotic at worse. To be quite honest, Bellamy’s scared. With everything that happened, somehow, Clarke Griffin is the one good thing he has left and he can’t risk losing that, so he doesn’t move.

 He looks around in awe and breathes her in so his lips don’t act against his will. It’s funny how this mismatched composition of various colors and shapes can say so much about someone – because that in front of Bellamy is Clarke at her most honest.

 She goes sit on the bed and gives him freedom to wander around. He recognizes some of the sketches – Raven’s face, the shape of his profile, Octavia’s eyes and even one that looks suspiciously similar to his hands around a coffee mug – and it makes his heart swell inside his chest, too big to be contained.

 That’s another thing about Clarke: She always makes him feel too big to fit inside himself.

  Bellamy sits beside her and they enjoy the silence.

 Clarke’s the one to break it:

“This is Raven’s flat,” Clarke says casually.

“I’m aware,” Bellamy keeps his voice gentle. Something in the way her brow furrows in deep concentration makes him think that, despite her apparent nonchalance, this is something hard for her. He teases her lightly, “I’ve been here before, Clarke, I know you guys are roommates.”

“No, that’s precisely it. We’re not roommates, this is Raven’s flat. She lets me crash. I’d never be able to afford a place like this with the income of the coffee shop and the club.” Clarke makes a pause and Bellamy waits, studying her just as intently as she seems to be studying the wall. “She grew up poor where I grew up rich, that’s the hilarious part. When her mother died she came to live in my house, there wasn’t even a question. Rae was always a genius, though. Studied like crazy and got a full-ride scholarship to the MIT. She went there for a year.”

“What changed?”

“Everything,” Clarke finally turns to face him, hands fidgeting in her lap and a small smile gracing her lips. “Everything changed too quickly – I decided I didn’t want to go to med school, my dad died, my mother disowned me. I had nothing left.”

 His pulse is hammering rabidly against his ribs and Bellamy can feel the muscle in his jaw tick. Clarke puts a finger over it.

“And Raven – fuck. I got so lucky, though. Raven’s great-aunt had died and left her a fucking fortune. She could’ve done anything with her life,” Clarke sighs and lets her finger trace the shape of his bones, “She chose to drop everything, MIT, her entire life, and come down here with me. Raven transferred to ARK U and I got two jobs and we started over. That’s how I’m here in this awesome flat with barely two coins in my pocket and why no one knows what I’m studying. I’m not.”

“I really was a self-entitled prick, wasn’t I?” He gives her his best self-deprecating grin, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ written on his freckles, echoing in his blood.

“Yeah, but I liked you anyway, so.” Clarke laughs. “And you weren’t _that_ far off. I used to be rich.”

“What I’m hearing is that you like me, but is just as poor as I am. There’s no personal gain in that, Griffin.”

 She beams at him, full-force, and it’s like someone decided to turn every single light in the city on at the same time.

“That’s pretty much the truth. You’re stuck with a penniless rich girl, Blake.”

“Just my luck.” He rolls his eyes and pulls Clarke close, tucking her head under his chin keeping her there.

 They don’t kiss – the time isn’t right and they’re both two lost kids trying to find themselves amidst the ruins of what they once knew -, but they do entwine their fingers and stay together.

 That’s more than enough.

 

 

 

 The tides are crashing against the rocks forcefully, some of the water even splashes his feet, and the salty smell of the ocean seems to make reality crispier, somehow.

“Here you go,” Clarke offers him the foam cup, settling beside him in the damp rock, “black and bitter, the way you like it.”

“You know my soul so well,” he snarks, but the underlying affection in his voice and the small smile dancing in his lips aren’t quite biting.

“Damn right I do.”

 Her legs dangle on empty space and Bellamy notices Clarke’s feet are bare.

“Did you just walk all the way there barefoot?”

“Yup,” she makes a popping sound with the last ‘p”, “got a problem with that, Blake?”

“Of course I do! You could’ve hurt yourself, stupid.” Bellamy grabs her ankle non-too-gently in order to inspect her feet. They’re dirty and covered with thick sand, but seem otherwise unharmed. “Where are your fucking shoes, Clarke?”

“What a fucking mother hen,” Clarke ruffs and slaps his hands away, “I’m fine, jerk. They’re in the car.”

“You’ll see who’s the mother hen when I carry you back to the car like a sack of potatoes,” he complains, narrowing his eyes at her wiggling toes like they personally offended him.

“Your coffee will get cold. Drink it and shut up, please.”

 He glares at her, unimpressed as anything, but takes a huge gulp of the warm liquid anyway.

“See?,” Clarke teases, “much better.”

“I don’t even know why I put up with you.”

“You just like me too much.”

“Keep teasing and one day I won’t.”

 Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly and smiles. A real one amidst provocations and smirks.

“I don’t think you’ve mastered the whole not caring thing yet.”

“Fuck you too.” Before Bellamy realizes they’re staring each other down, daring the other to break first. He does his best to keep his face impassive, but Clarke points at her still wiggling toes, not a single muscle in her face moving while her small toes dance, and a laughter escapes his throat despite his best efforts. “You’re ridiculous.”

 Clarke leans against his side, head resting on his shoulder and only hums in confirmation.

“Did you call her?” She asks, her voice almost drowned in the rustle of the waves. He sighs.

“Yes, I did. She managed to talk to me for whole five minutes. I think it’s our new record.”

“And how are you feeling about it?”

 Another wave hits the rocks and wets their legs, hers bare and smooth, his covered with darkening jeans.

 Bellamy breathes in until his lungs can’t expand any further and tries to capture everything about feeling in peace for the first time in a long time.

 Maybe things won’t ever be the way they were again.

 Maybe Octavia will never be able to forgive him completely.

 But the sun is warm against his back and the seagulls are making that goddamn annoying noise they do when it’s summer and the world is for once happy, and it doesn’t feel like it’s the end of the world anymore.

“I’m better.” She raises her eyes, electric blue and reflecting the sea, to assess him. “I really am.”

“You really are something, Bellamy Blake.”

“So are you, Clarke Griffin.”

 They don’t kiss because their worlds are ruined and they mean hope for each other. They don’t kiss because summer is fast-approaching and this, right here, could be a second chance. She doesn’t kiss him because he needs her and he doesn’t kiss her because she loves him – have loved him – although these are both true.

 Their worlds are already in shambles and new chances sprouts every day, with every choice. Bellamy needs her and Clarke loves him and, truly, nothing is new.

 When Clarke Griffin finally kisses Bellamy Blake is because, for once, everything around them is quiet and they get to be exactly who they want to be. She gets to taste his lips and slip her fingers in his hair, eats his soft moans and gasps like she’s been starving for them all along.

 It’s tender, then brutal, then tender again. Like the tides rising, crashing, laving.

 They get to love each other’s bruises and scars.

“Took you long enough,” he teases her when they part, but his cheeks are blushed and his eyes are sparkling like fireworks and Clarke can’t do anything but smile so widely her cheeks hurt.

“I didn’t see you moving any faster.”

“I was getting there,” he grumbles.

 Clarke laughs and it’s hoarse and heavy, fitting for a girl with so many battles fought and won, and Bellamy loves her even though she’s not soft, not smooth, not easy.

“C’mon, Bellamy. If I waited for you we’d be _platonic_ forever.”

“I don’t think we were ever really good at this platonic shit.”

 If her smirk is a little wicked, it’s all the better.

“I guess you’re right.”

 When the day is over, they’ll go back to Clarke and Raven’s flat, order pizza and watch eighties movies while Raven trash talks everything from the cheesy romantic plots to the dialogues and figurine. He might sleep over and work on his thesis, someday Clarke might finally drop the bartending gig to start a major in Art.

 The curtains will close because life goes on and not every day is spent lazy under the sun between kisses and lousy jokes, but not every day needs to be a battleground either.

 They’ll learn, eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, come hang with me on [ tumblr ](%E2%80%9Dpepperish.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D).


End file.
